


Just A Pinch

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Body Modification, Ear Piercings, F/M, Just Add Wrench, Light Masochism, Masturbation, Nipple Piercings, Piercings, Tattoos, Trust Kink, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anonymous asked: Do you think you could write a tattoo/piercing wrench x reader. From the prompt thing you reblogged?Can I?! Fuck, I don't know. Let's see shall we?





	Just A Pinch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



The first time Wrench pierces you it couldn’t be less of a deal - it barely stings if not for the initial shock of metal wedging through flesh. 

When you'd first voiced your tentative desire to get your ears done, admitting you'd never had a needle pushed through you that wasn't medically necessary, Wrench had acted like the news gave him a heart attack. You watched him twist at the hips, inked-up hands folded over his heart before he crumpled to the floor like a hammy Jimmy Siska. 

Talk about theatrics, you thought at the time. 

Moments later, Wrench had started digging around his wrench bench for something he called his ‘bedazzler.' 

At the time, you'd thought it was nothing more than what the name implied, but instead, he'd produced a stamped-up tackle box, laden with needles, gauze, jewelry and half empty bottles of peroxide and rubbing alcohol. You didn't mention the tiny bottle of tequila amongst the surgical cleaners, but it looked ancient. 

After a verbal back and forth about the dirt under his fingernails and “when have you ever pierced anyone?!” to which he flicked the rings in his ears, you'd set your lips straight and agreed. 

Wrench would pop your cherry… piercing wise of course. Not… well not sexually. 

“Let's just get this over with,” you sigh, sitting on a stool beside his bench, fingers laced in your lap with your back straight. 

“Don't you worry your cute, acorn-shaped head. This is gonna hurt me, waaaay more than it's gonna hurt you,” he says with fake strain; voice one long static dribble. He'd be annoying if he wasn't so… sexy. With a pair of black latex gloves, he looks a bit more erotic than he ought to. It doesn't help that he snaps them at the wrist, nor that he wiggles his fingers at you while emitting a ‘spooky’ sound.

“Just don't get a chub or else we’ll all think you're weird,” you tell him flatly, but can't stop your lips from twitching into a smile when Wrench grumbles a muffled reply that sounds something like “I’ll show you chub… show you meat chub.”

You feel a bit foolish and a little nervous, or maybe a lot nervous, as you sit there while he pulls the plastic off a fresh needle, pouring some rubbing alcohol into its plastic cap. 

“Alright, game on! Ready for the pain train, baby?!” Wrench throws on some Public Enemy, and you give a thick swallow, letting him do what you'd both agreed. 

The tiny pinch of pain was so slight you hadn’t even realized he was done until the needle finally slipped out the back of your earlobe, leaving a light ring of metal in its place. When the little drop of blood slides warmly down your neck, you start to feel a little… funny. Like butterflies in your stomach or vertigo - funny. 

It doesn't stop you from calmly turning your neck as Wrench instructs and it sure as shit doesn't prevent you from letting him pierce your left ear to match the right. 

Like you said, it was no big deal. The pain was nothing, but the tickle it leaves in your gut is… unnerving to say the least.

Two months later, having forgotten that queer feeling Wrench gave you, you mention you were thinking about getting the crest of your right ear done. It's an offhanded remark - one you make as you're cruising through Wrench’s hard drive for a not shit-movie to watch while you and Josh run a data mine tonight. Boring, tedious work like that requires something enjoyable, but not distracting, playing in the background. 

With a clatter of noise, Wrench drops the smart blender he'd been working on to fetch his tackle-kit with all the fury of Smeagol after his ‘precious.' 

“What are you-” 

“No, no, no, ask and you shall receive!”

Double carets, interchanging with exclamations, tell you how excited he is to slip the needle into you again, as if his body language and vigorous orders, to pull your hair back, didn't let you know. 

It’s a powerful type of energy that Wrench carries around when he's excited, and it's hard not to get caught up in it. Without batting an eye, you heft yourself up on the wench bench, pin your hair back in a tight fist and lean into him. 

The second time Wrench pierces you, it feels a little weirder than the first time. 

The pain burns rather than pinches, but the first stick of the needle and thread of metal still stings, and when there's nothing left but the beating brand of torn flesh, you realize you're flustered. 

You blushed while Wrench makes muffled grunts of concentration besides your bloody ear, dabbing at your new dimple with a peroxide-cool bit of gauze. 

Without that damn mask, you're sure you'd feel hot breath on your neck. 

The new piercing takes a full month to heal, but by week two you're already thinking about your next one. It hits you later, after you mention it to Sitara, that this could become a mild addiction. With Wrench, his tattoos and piercings, at least those of which you can see, it seems like it's a possibility. 

You've heard of people getting addicted to tattoos - to the endorphins that it brings but… maybe it's not just the needle that makes you feel that leak of moisture hit your underwear but something about it works for you on another level. 

A few days after your new piercing has healed, you spot a chick with a ring down the middle of her lower lip on your way out of Oakland on a stolen motorcycle with the cops only a few miles behind you. After you ditch the bike, waiting for the chase to end in the back of a fast food joint, you lick your lower lip with a curious swipe. 

The girl had looked average, but with her lip pierced down the middle like that - one of those snug ones that accentuated the natural crease of her puffy lower lip - she looked kind of hot. 

You spend the whole walk back to HQ poking your lower lip, licking the smooth inside and wondering what it'd look like or… what it'd feel like. 

The third time Wrench pierces you, you moan and tense, unprepared for the heat it spreads in your lower abdomen. 

Your lip bleeds, but it doesn't gush, and more than half of it ends up in your mouth; swimming against your teeth. This time the odd tickle in your gut is definitely recognizable, and both you and Wrench freeze as the echo of your very intimate sound fades. 

“Are we… good?” Wrench asks, with that complex robotic lull saturating around a teasing question. It doesn't escape your notice that he sounds a bit out of breath. 

What is he thinking? Sometimes the mask helps give him away, but right now, as he blinks double x’s you hate how well he can hide behind it. Those x’s give nothing away and you hate that you're the open book and not him. Does he see the red soaked into your cheeks? - and does he know what it means? Of course, he knows… but...

You were unable to say anything, but you nod once he's done, running your tongue against the metal that slides into tangy flesh. It tastes like copper. 

The blood makes you feel an edge of danger and the pain and those endorphins flushing out the ache makes your breathing heavy. Wrench notices - you know he does. Maybe, you want him to see but the fucker stays remarkably quiet, so there's no telling what he thinks about it. 

Another little sound of contentment escapes your lips as you tongue the fresh metal in your lip. 

Wrench doesn't mention it, which would have struck you as odd had you not had other things on your mind. Usually, he was always game for a filthy comment or a pornographic nudge. It seemed that when faced with your potential arousal he keeps his comments to himself. Maybe he’s grossed out by it; worried he's about to cross a line he doesn't wanna even toe. 

That worry goes out the window when you notice the angle of his hips. The way he moves gives you the impression that the chubby you'd joked about months ago is actually a possibility. 

You could easily tease him about it… but you're not even sure what you feel in all honesty. Aroused? Turned on? - yeah… but the why is still a mystery. 

The whole thing flusters you enough that you don't even thank him for the ring, just up and head back to your laptop with an embarrassing slick between your thighs. So much for being addicted to piercings. 

You're pretty sure this isn't what people meant when they talked about shit like that. 

The pain recedes after an hour or so, just in time for Sitara and Horatio to head out to a rally and Wrench and Josh to meet Marcus at the garage to get a package out of a HAUM delivery truck. 

That evening you set your laptop down with a raw energy. 

With your tongue on that slip of metal in your lower lip - teeth clinging it softly - you brace yourself in your chair, head tilted back to watch for any shadows on the stairwell and slide a flat hand down past your waistband.

You bring yourself to orgasm three times before that energy dispels. 

Each climax fills your ears with more and more cotton and each time you imagine the way Wrench had your lower lip gripped in his fingers… how the needle slid oh-so-smoothly through flesh. Vivid memories come, of how the pain had popped into flowing pleasure; gushing between your legs like the blood that had trickled down your chin. 

It's all obscene, you've always been the rebel in your family, but even this is strange for you. Is it Wrench or the piercings that make you like this?

Does it even matter? 

You don't know and tell yourself you don't care as you slid your fingers along wet folds of flesh, press hard into your clit and roll it firmly until another deep wave crests and saturates. 

Four times...

Two weeks later you stop in a tattoo shop to find out for yourself if it's Wrench or the needle. You've been unable to stop thinking about it everytime Wrench is around, which is nearly always and your progress on the Day Zero virus is lacking, to say the least. 

It doesn't help that you can feel the nerdy anarchist watching you behind his mask; unsubtle. 

Sometimes you’ll swivel around to catch him, and sometimes he pretends like he’d never been looking at all… other times he just keeps staring at you with unreadable double x’s. 

Those times make you wanna throw a cup of coffee at him.

There in the tattoo shop, with the hottest looking piercer you could find, you get the crest of your other ear done, holding your breath, waiting for the pinch and the pleasure but all you feel is burning pain and a short wave of endorphins after the initial rush. 

It hurts. 

It doesn’t feel pleasant or erotic, or anything like when Wrench had done it for you, but there's a familiar weightlessness that you realize is the rush most people feel. 

Your hoodie stays up for the next few days as if you’re ashamed of getting another bit of metal that Wrench didn’t put there himself. For those three days, you hang around HQ, feeling grumpy enough that no one, not even Sitara, bothers to talk to you. 

Wrench hangs around, staring and hammering and cursing and playing thrash punk on repeat. 

On day four, you soap up your ear and remove the offending bit of metal, tossing it in the trashcan. 

That afternoon. While your ear throbs with heat, you pause - fingers dead over the keyboard - a desire wiggles its way up your chest. 

As casually as humanly possible, you take your laptop, climb up on the conference table and turn around until the bank of TV’s is at your back, and the rest of the group is dead ahead. Without snooping eyes on your screen, you type in ‘nipple piercings,' feeling your breasts tingle at the idea. 

3,562,003 results (.77 seconds)

With Wrench’s music in the background, Psychostick you think, you click the Images tab and clamp your front teeth down over the ring in your lower lip. It’s still a habit to bite the metal which you’ve been told is a bad bad idea. Holding your breath, you scroll down the images. They look… painful, and that peaks your interest enough that you spend the rest of the evening reading up on aftercare procedures and forum posts on people's experiences with them. 

You can’t tell if all the chicks that get them done are total badasses or if they’re lying through the keys but… the more you read, the more you can’t wait to ask Wrench about it. 

Something tells you he’ll jump at the opportunity. He’d get to see free tits and shove a needle in someone - in you - and he seemed to like both just fine. 

But it’s your tits he’ll see, you think, both incredibly excited and not confident enough to imagine actually asking him outright. You’ll have to be subtle...

While you’ve entertained the idea of Wrench as a sexual partner from time to time, he’s been more of a friend and brother figure for the past two years. Maybe that’s what makes this whole… unspoken thing so much stranger. Taboo, almost. These lusty daydreams and evening masturbation sessions feel… dirty is a bad word, but it's the closest you can grasp for the feeling. It definitely feels perverted as fuck. 

“Hey, Sitara,” you nod after DedSec’s Face as she sits down at the table, fingers sticky with spray paint and a glob of silver paint on her chin. 

“Yeah?” She breathes, kicking back in her seat as sweat dries on her forehead. 

She must have been up tagging highrises, you figure, picking your lips up into a wicked smile. Sitara’s a badass. Maybe she's got her nips studded without you noticing. How could you or anyone notice with the baggy sweater and coveralls?

“Ever think about getting your nipples pierced?” You ask, unhindered with a good-humored grin. 

Sitara laughs like you’re joking, but after a few seconds her thin brows rise, “Seriously?”

Out the corner of your eye, you notice Wrench pause mid-lunge with a hammer, mask turning towards you and Sitara. As he takes a step to the side, his hammer slips to the floor, catching the attention of everyone else except you. He mutters a loud “fuck!” as Sitara’s lip curl, shaking her head. 

The obvious interest Wrench shows almost makes you break composure; collapsing into laughter. Against all the odds, you swallow, smirk and scoot your ass a little close to Sitara as she leans in, elbows on the table.

In a puff of breath, Sitara chuckles, “I've heard the nipples hurt worse than my septum did, and let me tell you, that shit makes your eyes water.”

“I was thinking about having mine done when the lip’s finished healing,” you don’t mention the stud you got from the parlor a few days ago. 

“Just don't put any more metal in your face. The lip looks hot but there's this girl down at the paint store that has like ten piercings in her face, and it just looks… bad. A little goes a long way - same can be said for color.” Sitara lays down her wisdom with that warm husk, wiggling her multicolored fingertips with a lazy smile. 

With a flick of your tongue on your lip ring, you change the subject, “Most people say it hurts less than the septum.”

“Man,” Sitara sighs, “you’re gonna end up getting one done and wimping out on the second. I bet you one of those ’big willy’ ice cream sundaes you won't get ‘em both done.”

“Deal, but if I win, you’ll need to finish that design we talked about last week.”

In a blood oath, Sitara flicks her fingertip against your own, grinning, “Done. I've been wanting to see how gross bourbon cherry ice cream is for sooo long now, I'm having weird dreams about it.”

“Yeah, well,” you chuckle, folding the top of your laptop down over your knees, “I'm pretty sure I've got you beat on the whole weird dream thing…”

“Mmm, I bet.”

For a moment you and Sitara share a look. You narrow your eyes, daring her to mention what your sure she knows has something to do with Wrench. You're not all that transparent, but Sitara can decode you like a poorly rendered kernel hack. There’s no way you're going to let her voice something you, yourself don’t even have a firm understanding of. But she knows, and her lips screw up in a very knowing, very amused smirk before the storm passes and she breaks the tension with a long exhale, “Well, I’ll let you get back to your ‘research.’ I’ll await the selfies and in the meantime…”

You pinch your nose into a mock glare, arching a brow at Sitara as she rubs paint flakes off her fingers. 

“Hmmm?” You venture, already knowing what she’s about to say. That smirk says it all.

“... don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“No promises there,” you reply, opening your laptop back up for a distraction from Sitara’s intense eyes. She’s good at flipping from playful banter to dead-serious. You get it - you do, but you’re less reckless than some and if Wrench agrees to do this, as you assume he will, well… it won’t be your fault if things spiral out of control.

The fourth time Wrench pierces you, it's a huge deal. 

The setting changes from HQ to the garage; Wrench’s Garage, mainly for some privacy considering what he's about to pierce. 

The evening had been pretty well planned. None of it was spur of the moment. You even sent Sitara a text to keep Josh occupied while Wrench did his thing, so no one else got an eyeful. The whole day leading up to the evening leaves you pink-cheeked with all the sordid outcomes. It doesn’t help that Wrench, in typical fashion, has been sending you jokes and jabs and extremely suggestive innuendos to your personal line instead of through the DedSec channel. 

He’s been more crude and amusing than usual, which means he’s dialed it up from his usual eight straight to an electrified eleven; party streamers and firecrackers galore.

“Listen, before we do this you should probably sign my contact. In the likely event that flashing your future boyfriend,” both fingers and mask quoting, “gets you all lathered up, we can’t have you losing control when I get your dirty pillows in my grasp!” Wrench lifts his hands, squeezing the air as his voice dips to mimic a horror crescendo.

Luckily, one of the regulars you deal with at the docks sold you a valium last night and four hours in, it’s leveling you out enough that your reply it relaxed enough to not embarrass you for life. 

“I’ll keep my female hysteria to myself. Scout’s honor.” You lift your hand, pinky under thumb and grin. Wrench scoffs, lowering his air-groping hands with a dramatic dismissal. 

“Keep that white-hat shit up, and I’ll shove that scout’s honor up your ass. Don’t be sheep. Luddite.”

“Technocrat,” you dish back, throwing yourself on the hood of the Charger skeleton in the corner. 

Wrench shrugs, kicking a cardboard box out of his way so he can drop the familiar ‘bedazzler’ on the bench beside the car. For awhile there’s nothing but silence while he fiddles with his phone; one heel kicked up on an old generator, trying his best to look bored. Underscores level his digital mask until double x’s pop up just in time for The Unseen to thrash out of his phone. In a few seconds he sends the album to the speakers stacked in the corners, and finally, you can breathe easy with music filling up the empty space. 

You’re not bothered by silence, but something loud is a welcome distraction as your nerves start to heighten. Only so much the valium can do, you figure.

“I never did ask, but… you’ve done this before, right?”

Double carets slide into place, and behind the mask, he makes a sound like a grin, “When you get down to it, all nipples are created equal. Biologies not that different.”

He pauses, fist curled over the black tackle box, “Ya know, aside from not looking as,” he winks a tilde-caret, “dashing. Dudes have about the same setup: nerve endings, blood vessels… milk ducts. You’ll be fine.” 

It’s hard to tell where his gaze is, but you get the feeling he’s looking at your tits behind the loose t-shirt. The feed cuts out on his mask as he blinks, staring with question marks for a brief second before the double x’s cover up whatever he was unsure about. It doesn’t feel all that reassuring, but you’re not worried about his skill… maybe it’s the potential pain that unnerves you… or more likely, it’s removing your shirt. 

“Okay. Let's do this, then,” you declare. 

Rip it off like a band-aid, you think, taking a deep breath before pulling your arms out your sleeves. 

Wrench’s fist clenches tightly over the black tackle-kit, a sight that sends a little shiver down your spine as you exhale and lift the shirt over your head. The stagnant air of the garage immediately strikes your exposed flesh, pulling your nipples tight until they tingle.

This is crazy. You're crazy. 

No bra. The forums had been adamant about it, and Wrench had sent you a text last minute as a reminder, except his reminder, was a simple ‘Don’t forget to let the funbags breathe! ;>’ which would have been funny if you weren’t already feeling the nerves coming up past the drugs.

Ready or not, here we go, you think, balling up the oversized shirt before stuffing it under your head against the car hood. 

You make it a point to not watch Wrench’s mask as you settle more comfortably against the Charger, breasts bouncing softly against your ribs. With your eyes closed and your cheeks bright, you miss the double hearts and exclamation marks that flash over Wrench’s mask as he stares at your naked breasts. 

“Okay - ok, okay, this is distracting, but I’ve got this. We’ve got this! - You ready for this?! You super sure? - cause this isn’t like the others.”

“... yeah,” you whisper, nodding, keeping your eyes shut as the sound of surgical plastic tears. 

Behind your eyelids, you can see a miasma of red shades thanks to the fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling. 

Wrench kicks a can out of the way and the sound of one of the alcohol bottles opening wets your tongue. The music pulses in your ears. Between your bare tits, your heart starts to race, running away from reason. Audibly, you start to breathe; inhaling through your lips, exhaling out your nose and hoping Wrench can’t hear over his punk core.

“Just think about pink clouds and big-dicked unicorns shitting rainbows,” he says beside you, clearing the distance soundlessly. When his fingers and thumb sink into the weight of your right breast you gasp, eyes darting open. You - you weren’t expecting that, for some reason… his hands are bare. 

No gloves this time. 

Wrench is bent over you, staring down with double zero’s. There are a good thirty seconds where you just stare and swallow a wad of saliva before relaxing your shoulders, taking another heavy breath and nod.

The soft, tender flesh of your tongue kills between your teeth as you hold back a moan while Wrench skims a wet wad of gauze down your nipple, being suspiciously thorough as the air drys the alcohol until it feels like someone's sent your nipple to the planet Hoth.

“Fuck, that’s cold,” you hiss, lifting a palm to your temple, daring a look as Wrench’s hand squeezes the supple skin of your breast. His nails are clean - the skin around his cuticles pink as if he’d scrubbed them extra hard. The dichotomy of your breasts, all soft and smooth, and his hands, littered with burns and callouses and hard tendon and bone, makes you gulp. Fuck, this had been a stupid fucking idea. Your underwear is already soaked, and he hasn’t even-

“Alright, here comes the big one, my friend. Take a very, very deep breath,” Wrench instructs, half-seriousness now. 

You inhale, shaken and dizzy as his hand squeezes. The glimmer of the needle catches under the lights and with your tongue trapped between your teeth, you squeeze your eyes shut and… you moan. 

The pain runs through the middle of your breast, unleashing a hot torrent of something too warm to be unpleasant and out of your parted lips you gasp and moan, and it’s not even quiet. 

Over the music, you can hear yourself as the sounds echo in the garage. 

Wrench makes a ragged sound as the needle pulls through your nipple. 

He tugs the tender bead of flesh while threading the jewelry through, making you whimper and sigh. Pleasure pulses between your thighs and, unable to help yourself, your hips twist while you dig the pads of your fingers into the hood of the Charger; a fist balled up beside your jaw. If this had been a contest to see who could get through this with as little emotion as possible, you’d be KO’ed.

This was a bad idea. Bad fucking idea, your brain supplies while Wrench pants behind the mask, twirling the ball onto the end of your piercing. It’s over quickly, but the air is charged with erratic music, Wrench’s weird grunts, and your heavy breaths. The whole encounter had been so unsubtle that you don’t even hesitate to say, “Why does it feel like this?”

“Easy. You’re a freak,” Wrench tells you; laughing with a wheeze of static. He's quick to answer, which tells you he's picked up on your ‘unusual’ reaction long before now. 

You nod, covering your face with your palm. The sweat on your forehead makes your cheeks pound with heat. Between your thighs, your clit pulses. There’s nothing but damp spandex separating your drenched flesh from the air. Suddenly you want hard cock; Wrench’s hard cock and you want it now. 

Fuck, you hope this has turned him on at least half as much as it has you. 

With Wrench’s hand still dug into your breast and the pain burning so sweetly, you open your eyes to bright light, twin exclamation marks and a faceful of spikes. Unable to keep a handle on your inner thoughts, you lick the ring along your lower lip and ask, “Do you wanna fuck?”

From behind his mask, Wrench whimpers - it’s so un-Wrench-like that you almost backtrack, thinking you’ve just royally fucked up, but his fingers dig into your tit and one-handed he starts unfastening his jeans. Red cotton and white pentagrams flash before your eyes before you remember you have hands and peel them off the hood to help him tug the fabric down around his hips. 

Furiously you kick off your flats, wedge the snug fabric of your lounge shorts over the width of your hips until one leg snakes free and his rough palm spearheads under your ass, yanking you to the end of the Charger. 

There’s one single moment in time where you think about a condom before Wrench is anchoring himself with that hand still wrapped around your freshly pierced breast, canting his hips between your legs and there… fuck, he’s inside you. 

This isn’t what you imagined when and ‘if’ you imagined getting Wrench between your thighs - which of course you’ve thought about, especially lately - but this is way better than any of your wildest fantasies. 

You’ve traded small talk, jokes and quiet companionship with him on the hood of this beat up piece of shit car so often that the fact that you're gonna fuck on it right now is too perfect. The first, uneven thrust he makes forces your free breast to bounce. The sore nipple trapped around his grip jostles enough to hurt, but it sends a bolt down your stomach. 

Your insides clench; pleasure running hot and Wrench must feel it because he curses.

“Fuck! - fuck… fucking shit,” he grunts and seeths, pulling at the back of your knee until your leg is half bent over his shoulder. The dull studs on his vest dig into your calf, dragging the tender skin as he fucks into you; churning in a half circle at the deepest point. 

Feeling well and truly stretched, you gasp and pull at the ends of his hoodie. In a mess of unstable motions - jolted with each smack of his hips - you get your palms under the dark cotton. He’s covered in black tattoos, sketch-stars on either hip, his scratchy name just under his navel, a delete key, a skull, a middle finger and more, but what makes you laugh out loud are the small barbells shoved through his nipples. 

“Shit-fuck! I can feel you laughing, you know,” he growls as dangerous as the spikes over his face, but with a firm hand at his back, you pull him closer, lifting the slack of his hoodie up against his neck to suck a piercing into your mouth. 

Wrench falters between your legs, releases your breast in a throb of pain before planting both hands under your ass. 

He shoves you further up on the hood, braces a knee on the car and proceeds to fuck you until your lips release his metal and all you can do is dissolve into moans while your breasts bounce and Wrench hammers his cock into you. Over and over and over again, he slaps that deep little nerve that meshes with the tugging ache in your nipple. 

“I’m gonna come soon,” you manage, holding onto the naked skin of his back and the heft of his vest.

“Oh-shit, oooh thank fuck… cause it’s - it’s been awhile,” he admits, panting and crackling gulps of breath that adds to the culmination of sensations. At once it’s not enough and too much. You need more, but you can’t handle any more - fuck, you want it, though.

“Wait - wait!” You start, gasping wetly. 

Wrench curses again, halting between your thighs; fingers digging into the meat around the dimples of your ass. You can hear him swallow - can see his throat bob. LED hearts stare down at you. 

He's got hearts… fucking hell. With a manic expression, you grin, “Do the other one like this. I wanna feel it like this… and I’m not losing my bet to Sitara.”

“I think we can fucking agree this is worth buying her some ice cream,” Wrench argues, mashing your bodies together with a robotic wheeze, chuckling as you groan, “Listen, I’m on the literal edge of blue balls here. Can we…” he pauses to catch his breath, “... can we just make a promise that I’ll buy her the big willy?” 

He thinks he’s won… but you shake your head and lay back along the hood of the Charger. Wrench’s mask blinks mad slashes then underscores as you lift your arms over your head until your tits are on full show and bite into the corner of your lower lip. The weight of your breast tugs at the divot of metal, but the deep sting only makes your insides flutter around Wrench’s buried dick. 

Sad slashes pop up as he whines dramatically, “Come onnn… don’t leave me hanging here!” 

Nestled deep inside, you can feel his cock throbbing. Must be painful… but you’d be lying to yourself if you said keeping Wrench waiting wasn’t adding to your arousal. This was rearing to be the best fuck of your life. He just needed to shove that needle through your other nipple.

With a breathless tone, you whisper, “... please,” and curl your calf along his studded shoulder. He melts like an overheated mainframe, grumbling with those double hearts blazing once again. 

“Fucking succubus.”

It’s laughable to watch him twist around for the 'bedazzler,' determined to get it without leaving your wet warmth. Somehow he manages, grunting and cursing up a tornado before slamming the box on the hood, vibrating the steel underneath you. He huffs, and he puffs and with a rebellious thrust, hidden by way of getting his tools out of the shelves, you clench in excitement. 

Yes, you can feel it already.

Hell, at this rate you might even finish before he starts moving again. This time you keep your eyes open, resting your fingers through your hair as the plastic rips and the needle turns under the lights, becoming a thin beam of sunshine. 

You gasp and jerk as Wrench upends the bottle of rubbing alcohol over your chest, glaring double carets. Fucking anarchist...

He shifts, pressing his cock in deep enough to take your breath away and wraps his fingers around the soft flesh of your breast. You exhale, feeling your own hot breath waft down over your chilly nipple; eyes on the shining tip of the needle. It’s so sharp… so fucking intense and you're ready for it when Wrench slips the needle through your hard nipple. Blood beads around steel and the pain blushes into euphoria so thick you wrap your other leg around Wrench’s hip and roll down into him.

“Fuck me,” you shudder, wrapping your fingers around the open sides of his vest, "Leave it in."

“It’s not-” he starts, but you feel so swollen and sensitive that your hips jerk down into his of their own accord; fucking him with the needle left threaded through the red, irritated bead of flesh. Every thrust - each jostle - sends another torrent of itchy pain that ravages your gut with lightning. 

Wrench snarls, sounding like a fucking jackal with a voice box. His hands slap flat beside your head.

Finally, forgetting about the needle as well, Wrench fucks you hard enough that your breasts feel like they’re on fucking fire. Each stick and slap of skin feels like twin bolts of lightning.

You finish without warning, startled into a high scream that cuts out as the waves of pleasure surge higher than you’d anticipated. Pleasures gushes between your thighs, tightening your muscles to the point that each thrust from Wrench pulls you back and forth over the car until a sound much like a broken pipe comes out of him and his cock slides smooth as he cums. It’s a dense, subtle burn that leaves you limp on the Charger, grinning like a moron.

“Oh my’god. Holy’shit - that… that was fucking awesome…”

You’d agree if you weren't brain dead. Usually, you manage to wrangle several orgasms out of yourself, but another one like that - like the one Wrench just gave you - would probably scramble your circuits beyond repair. You’re so laden with endorphins that you barely feel it when Wrench fiddles with your bloody nipple, threading the jewelry through before balling off the end, “... aannnnd, all done.”

His dick twitches inside you, taking it’s sweet ass time softening.

“Does this item,” his thumb brushes away the little trickle of dried blood just underneath the peak of your metal-studded breast, “mean we’re an ‘item’? Cause, not gonna lie, this was the highlight of my evening.”

“It was your evening,” you mumble, looking up at him with hazy vision, but the question marks on his mask are unmistakable.

“Fair enough. The highlight of the week.”

You glare.

“Month? Year? ... Alright, look, if I admit it’s in my top three lifetime wins, will you answer my question?”

“Sure,” you smile, patting down his vest lapel as Wrench careful slides his cock out of you, leaving a wad of cum to flood out against the Charger hood. Fuck, you forgot about the no condom thing… and spur-of-the-moment lust sorta aided your further forgetfulness to ask him to kindly ‘pull out’. Not like it really matters. You don’t have to worry about little Wrench babies, but it wasn’t super smart for someone who liked to think she was smart. 

With a groan, you sit up, tugging you leg off his shoulder with a wince. 

“That’s gonna hurt tomorrow…”

“Shit, a lot of you’s gonna hurt tomorrow. Looks like we got ourselves a bona fide masochist in the group.

“Just don’t go running your mouth, alright? I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Mhm, reputation for being fucking amazing,” he says, displaying double hearts. You blush, suddenly feeling shy now that the heavy dose of fuck-me chemicals are wearing off - it’s not shame, but it’s embarrassment to some degree. As your cheeks heat up, you watch Wrench stuff his soft cock back into his jeans, kicking his leg out - you assume - so his balls aren't stuck to his inner thighs anymore. It’s funny, and you giggle, if not soft enough he doesn’t hear over the music still crashing within his garage. 

Stealing a breath, you part your lips, “So…”

Wrench looks at you with those emoting hearts and your chest flutters like your stomach had just moments ago, “...you said something about being an item?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Anon for the super fun request. I didn't know I had this kink in me and it fits well with my Wrench headcanons. Much love to you! As always, thank you to everyone for reading. If you have the time, please let me know what worked or what didn't. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> (Big, special, overbearing hug to Darth Fucamus for her insights on this.)
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


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